


Love is reciprocal torture

by ArandoraStar



Series: The awful daring of a moment's surrender [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Eventual Threesome, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Kissing, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Threesome - F/M/M, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArandoraStar/pseuds/ArandoraStar
Summary: “You got a mark, Dee?” she asks softly.
Deacon is surprised. His heart races slightly and he unconsciously reaches for his left wrist. He’s hated and loved the name printed there in neat writing. He hated it when he fell in love with Barbara, who didn’t have a mark, and it wasn’t hers. He hated it when he had surgery to remove it, and it popped back up the following day. He hated it when he grew older and he never met her. But he’s loved it since he was old enough to know what it was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from Proust's 'The Captive and The Fugitive'. The series title is a quote from T.S. Elliot's 'The Wasteland'.

He’s been enamored by her since he first saw her rise from that vault with her brother over a year ago. There was something biblical about the way they entered the new world, hands clasped tightly together, expressions unwavering even as they faced the wasteland for the first time. Like two fallen angels ascending from hell with one thing in mind – revenge. Deacon knew then that they would either save the Commonwealth, or destroy it.

Sure, her brother is impressive as hell. Six feet and four inches of muscle and smooth, tan skin. It’s rare to find someone that tall in the Commonwealth these days. He stands out everywhere he goes – and Deacon swears he’s seen _countless_ people – women and men – fall to their feet in sheer disbelief at his size and good looks.

But to Deacon, he’s _boring_. Don’t get him wrong, Fixer is a stand up guy. He cares about people – all kinds, doesn’t matter – and he genuinely wants to help the Commonwealth. But he doesn’t talk much, and when he does, it’s mostly growls, grumbles, and short sentences. That works for some people though, because Deacon swears Piper comes every time the man speaks. Her eyes roll, jaw drops, and she’s suddenly breathy, and Deacon wishes every time it happens that he had a damn camera that worked so he could snap a picture and blackmail her with it. (Deacon is almost positive that Piper and Fixer are soulmates, but he hasn’t managed to catch a glimpse of their left wrists in all the time he’s followed the twins and can’t officially confirm.)

The man also can’t take a joke, hates lying – even the obvious and white ones – is impatient, and likes cram. ( _Seriously – cram)._ And he’s wicked protective of his twin sister, which drives Deacon absolutely insane. He swears the man has had it out for him since they first officially met at the entrance to headquarters half a year ago.

Deacon had been awaiting their arrival for months – leaving clues everywhere they went, hints that only Charmer really paid attention to. (According to her, it took weeks to convince Fixer that they needed to find the Railroad. He was uninterested in putting her in any danger the Common had to throw at them). He was nearly to the point of shaking in excitement when they finally popped up on Railroad security cameras fighting Swan.

It was like artwork, the way they took down the behemoth. Deacon hadn’t had many opportunities in his surveillance of the twins to really get a feel for their combat styles. He’d mostly just stumbled upon the aftermath of their conquests. But the show they put on at Swan’s Pond was something of legend. Fixer did most of the work with a shotgun while Charmer kept her distance with a rifle. It was only when Swan finally got a hand on Fixer that Charmer really went into action.

Deacon remembers it vividly to this day – the way she scaled the side of Swan’s shack with ease and threw herself onto the back of the behemoth. He’d notice the sword she always kept strapped to her back, but he’d never seen it in action. It took her only a few seconds to saw off the behemoth’s head and then they were falling and she was jumping. She came out of the water seconds later with Swan’s head in her hand. Fixer was on her a second later, throwing his hands in the air and likely screaming out reprimands for her actions. What Deacon remembers most about that fight though, is the smile on her face while her brother yelled at her. She was dirty, and the white of her teeth was a stark contrast to the mud and blood caked on her. She looked wild, and Deacon thought in that moment he had never seen anything more beautiful.

They left Swan’s head on a pike at the entrance to his pond and painted their calling card onto the ground beneath it. A capitol H encompassed by a circle. Deacon had seen it at every location they had fought and won.

They made it through the Common quickly after that, disposing of mutants, raiders, and ghouls without faltering. They made it to headquarters in record time, and Charmer decoded the door in seconds. (This made Tinker Tom pout for weeks, as he had been the one to come up with the idea).

The doors opened and the floodlights shone on the newbies, and Deacon, from the shadows, was once again struck by just how biblical a sight the twins were: Fixer with a shotgun and a rifle strapped across his back, his arms crossed, body rigid, and an unrelenting and unforgiving look in his eye; and Charmer, with her wry red-lipped grin, one hand on a cocked hip, and the other fiddling with the massive knife strapped to her thigh, caressing it in a way that had Deacon’s blood pressure rising. They looked like danger, like death, like freedom, and most importantly, they looked like a revolution.

He doesn’t honestly know that much about them, besides what he’s observed or heard. He knows that they’re both prewar. He knows that they’re twins. He knows Fixer’s wife was murdered and his son kidnapped and that the two of them were willing to burn the Commonwealth to the ground to find him. He knows that Fixer is a fighter to his core. (Which is probably why he joined the Brotherhood of Steel). He’s a strategist, a thinker, and a damn good man. He loves his sister more than anything in the world and listens to everything she says. He believes in her with every part of his soul. Deacon knows that Charmer is a talker and an absolute flirt. She can convince anyone of anything. She’s usually the smartest person in the room and he adores their banter more than he adores any literature in the Commonwealth. She’s stealthy, dangerous, and prefers knives over guns and sneaking in over busting down the door. She’s compassionate, expressive, and a leader through and through. (Its no wonder the Minutemen chose her to lead them).

But he doesn’t know their names. He hadn’t learned their names the entire time he had been following them. They only ever referred to one another by nicknames. He was ‘Talls’ and she was ‘Smalls.’ It was fitting, really, because Fixer is a monster and the top of Charmer’s head barely reaches her brother’s shoulder. Even their companions only call them by nicknames: Blue, Red, Boss, General, Knight, Doll. Even now that he’s been traveling with one or both of them for over half a year, he still doesn’t know their birth names.

There’s part of him – something deep and primal – that doesn’t like that he doesn’t know their names – specifically hers. It burns so far inside him that it’s easy to ignore – the bitterness that swells in his chest every time he calls her by her codename. But no one alive today knows his true name, and he won’t give it willingly. There’s a dark hypocrisy in him that he’s well aware of, and he uses it as fuel for his own self-hatred. _Names don’t matter_.

“Got another,” she asks him, nodding towards the cigarette haphazardly held between his lips. Her voice is rough, tired, and still as alluring as it always has been to him.

Her gaze is focused there, and he doesn’t overlook the dilation of her pupils and the slight hitch in her breath. She’s held a torch for him since they first met.

_“Wow. Newsflash, boss, these guys are kind of a big deal out there.”_

_“Have we met, handsome? I think I recognize those shades. You ever worked in Diamond City?” There was a smirk playing around her chapped lips and a glint in her crystal eyes. For a moment, Deacon knew what it felt like to be hunted._

_But he rolls with it, even though his heart is pounding and he doesn’t know why._

_“Nah. Big cities don’t do it for me. I’m what you could call – a fan, of yours and your brother's.”_

_“Awe, sugar. If you want an autograph, all you gotta do is ask. We don’t charge – much.”_

_Her brother elbowed her in annoyance and she laughed, biting her lip to try and contain it. He admired her then, even as he played off her charm with his own, pretending like she hadn’t burned herself into him. But her eyes never left Deacon – even as she conversed with Des and met the rest of the Railroad agents. Her gaze kept flickering back to him, curious and scorching. And that’s when Deacon realized that he was done for. Because the small girl with the big smile had ensnared him with only a few words and glances._

He’s just as lost as she is, so he really can’t blame her. There’s so much sexual tension between them that it’s affecting the people around them.

_“If you don’t fuck her, I will,” Glory said to him, her voice rough but sincere. He jumped slightly, caught off guard by her sudden presence. He desperately fought the flush descending his neck._

_He tsked. “Fraternization with another agent? Shame on you, Glory, for suggesting such wickedness.”_

_Her sharp gaze cut away from Charmer – who was working with Tinker Tom and her brother on some weapons mods – to him. “You’ve been staring at Charmer’s ass for the last hour, Deacon. If you haven’t been fantasizing about getting behind her, then there’s something fundamentally wrong with you.”_

_“I always knew you’d be a top.”_

_Glory smirked. “Don’t get fresh, Dee. You’re not my type.”_

_“Awe, Glores, you’re killing me.”_

_She rolled her eyes and turned to leave. “Oh, I’d suggest being a bit more subtle if you don’t want Fixer to rip you a new asshole.”_

_He turned to look at the man in question, who stood near his sister with his arms crossed and seething glare directed solely at Deacon. The spy grinned, waved, and then quickly slinked to another part of HQ._

“Yeah, sugar,” he says, reaching into his front pocket. Her eyes flutter slightly at the endearment he stole from her. He likes to slip it into conversation as often as possible, because it never gets old seeing her try to fight how much she loves his voice.

He fights the smirk crawling across his lips and pulls out his last cigarette, tossing the empty box over the ledge of the building they’re sitting on. Admiring the view, as she put it.

He passes the stick to her and she takes it, holding out her hand for his lighter. He doesn’t pass it on, but instead leans closer to her, flips it open, and strikes it on. Her crystal gray eyes gleam and she leans in, never taking her gaze off him. He lights her cigarette, his eyes flitting down to her full lips, which pucker around the cigarette as she breathes in.

His eyes dart back up to hers and he’s caught for a single moment. The flame from the lighter reflects in her eyes and the result is stunning. The colors all around them are in shades of red from the sunset and grey from the fumes of the Institute as it burns below them, and he thinks not for the first time about how suiting those colors are on her. He’s thankful for his sunglasses, which keep her from seeing just how affected he is by her.

They lean back. Her right hand – dainty and dangerous - comes up to grasp her cigarette. It’s shaking. She doesn’t look away from him. She pulls the cigarette out and exhales a cloud of smoke. She leans back on her other hand, grasping the edge of the stone ledge they’re sitting on. Her legs dangle over the edge and she’s so small, a gust of wind might toss her over. Deacon’s body has been tense since she sat down and he followed – because that’s what he does when it comes to her.

“What color are your eyes?” she asks him, not for the first time.

He grins. “What’s your name?” It’s his usual response.

Neither answers, but neither looks away.

She takes another drag, blows out, licks her lips, and then looks back out over the city they’re towering above. He follows her eyes to the burning remains of CIT, of an entire community of people. He’s not made of stone. He realizes how much life was lost today. But it’s for the greater good, he tells himself. This had to happen.

He turns back to look at her. She wore her vault suit today. It’s the first time he’s seen her in it since she rose from the vault over a year ago. She’s shaped a little different now – not as soft, harsher lines – but it still fits her just as well. It was fitting, really, that she wore it to battle. It was a reminder of where she came from, and why she was here.

There’s a bruise on her jaw where she took a hit from a courser. It’ll look worse tomorrow. There’s blood on her suit, and some specks on her face and hands. Red really is her color.

She finishes her cigarette before him and tosses it over the edge of the building. She’s not usually a smoker, but today was hard. Fixer disappeared almost as soon as the button was pushed. Deacon gets it. Making the decision to kill your own child, monster or not, is the hardest thing anyone would ever have to do.

“You got a mark, Dee?” she asks softly.

Deacon is surprised. His heart races slightly and he unconsciously reaches for his left wrist. He’s hated and loved the name printed there in neat writing. He hated it when he fell in love with Barbara, who didn’t have a mark, and it wasn’t hers. He hated it when he had surgery to remove it, and it popped back up the following day. He hated it when he grew older and he never met her. But he’s loved it since he was old enough to know what it was.

_“It’s a soulmark,” his mother told him when he was very young. “Means the other half to your soul is out there in the world waiting for you.”_

_“How do I find her?” he had asked, tracing the name with his fingers._

_He hadn’t recognized the sadness in his mother’s smile at that time, but he remembers it now._

_“Not everyone finds their mark, Sweetie. The world’s too big and dangerous. But at least you know she exists.”_

He’s never held out any real hope about meeting his mark. It was so rare nowadays to actually find your soulmate that no one really waited until they did. Deacon had read about it being considered abnormal to marry or love outside of your mark prewar. But it was easy, then, to find your mark.

“Maybe,” is his response because he’s too exhausted and surprised to come up with anything wittier. He smirks at her and takes another drag of his cigarette.

She chuckles. “I was born a blank,” she says.

His heart sinks, and he doesn’t know why. The name on his wrist burns and whatever feeling in his chest that has been there since he met her seems to fizzle. He fights back against it, reminding himself that names don’t matter.

“It was rare back then to not have a mark,” she goes on. “In school, kids called me a freak. It was worse because Nate had one, and I didn’t. I was the dysfunctional twin.”

Deacon’s eyes widen and his heart stutters. He nearly chokes on the smoke from his cigarette, because this is the most honest Charmer has ever been with him. _Nate_. That’s her brother’s name. Fixer. Blue. Boss. Knight. _Nate_.

“It sort of led my life, not having one. I was the rebel, had trouble getting along with everyone, fought against everything. I was smart and reckless, and that’s why the CIA recruited me. I was willing to do anything, risk anything, because I had no one. At least, that’s what I thought. They, and Nate, fixed me. Made me realize that I was more than a blank.

“Saved my life, really. I always knew my family loved me. Never doubted that for a second. Nate was there for me more than I was for him. He held me together. Still does. I owe him everything.”

She huffs a laugh, but it’s bitter.

“Nate used to be the fun one. The life of the party. He was charming and funny and the sweetest, softest man you’d ever meet. War ruined that part of him. He came back different. Depressed. I tried to help him, but I didn’t have enough time. They sent me out on an undercover op not even a month after he got back from Alaska.”

She sighs, cracks her neck, but doesn’t look at him. But Deacon can’t take his eyes off her. This is…this is more than he’d ever hoped to hear from her. Just for himself. Not for anyone, or anything. He just wants to know her, and she’s giving him that.

“That’s when he met Nora. His mark. They got married and had a kid before I got back. Bought a house. You know that settlement up north? Sanctuary?”

He nods.

“He lived there,” she continues. “I was so proud of him when I got home. He had everything he’d ever wanted. I was visiting them when the bombs dropped. I wasn’t supposed to be in the vault – they didn’t have space for me. But not everyone made it in time and I was given one of the extra pods. I felt it, when Nora was killed. It’s the most painful thing anyone will go through – losing their mark. Nate and I have always been close, but I felt his agony when she died. It was gone when we woke up. That’s how I knew it had been a while. They say it takes months for the pain to go away. Nate could walk. That’s how I knew. It didn’t hit him though. Not until Kellogg. Not until Nick told us it had been ten years.”

She’s quiet for a few moments. She still hasn’t looked at him. She’s staring at her left wrist, holding it with her right hand and tracing over it, where it’s covered by her vault suit.

“So yeah. I was born a blank,” she says. “And then I woke up to this world with two marks.” She laughs drily. “Two. I go from being one type of freak, to another.”

Deacon’s heart is about to beat out of his chest and his eyes are glued to her left arm.

She turns to look at him, a seriousness in her eyes that he’s only seen glimpses of. Never directed at him.

“I’ll tell you my name if you let me see your eyes,” she says, as though she hadn’t just given him more information on her life than he’d ever dreamed for; as though she hadn’t just told him she had two soulmates in this world.

He doesn’t speak, just nods. She reaches with both hands and is gentler than he expected. It’s almost hesitant, the way her fingers linger on the arms of his sunglasses. She pulls them away slowly, her fingers grazing his temple. He’s worried she can feel his heartbeat through even the slightest touch.

The glasses come off and Deacon has never felt more exposed. He expects her not to react. She’s got a poker face you wouldn’t believe. But that isn’t the case. As soon as her eyes meet his, her breath hitches and a flush spreads across her face. It’s so endearing, so fucking _cute,_ that he can’t fight the urge to kiss her blush. He leans in with a smile and his lips barely caress the heat of her cheek before he pulls away.

Her face is even darker now, and as Deacon is pulling away, he can’t resist dipping his eyes down to admire the view of her slightly heaving chest. He looks back up at her and she’s watching him intently.

And, just because he can, he grins at her – full on teeth, and eyes, and all the charm he can muster. He wants to push her. Wants to see how much resistance she’ll put up before she willingly falls – tumbles over the edge with him and accepts their entwined fate. This has been building up since he first watched her rise from the ground like the messiah, since he first noticed how pretty she was even covered in blood, since she first spoke to him. She enamors him, completely, totally, with his entire body and soul. He’d jump if she did. He’d do anything; go anywhere, whatever it took to stand next to her, or even behind her. He’d follow her through hell because he believes in her and yeah, because he _loves her_.

Her answering smile was slow on the draw, but boy was it blinding. She’s like the sun, he realizes. Bright, and warm, and necessary. Everything she touches shines, and grows, and is better just because she’s touched it. People flock to her, love her. Deacon sees it in everyone who’s come to know her. Carrington, who’s unpleasant to everyone, slipping her stimpacks and asking her if she’s okay when he thinks no one is looking. Des, with her small, adoring grin she reserves only for her absolute favorites. Tinker, who perks up every time she enters HQ because she’s always entertained his conspiracies. Drummer Boy, whose eyes never leave her when she’s around and who blushes every time she smiles at him. Even Glory adored her, sought her out every time she was at HQ for gossip and a drink, told her with her dying breath that she was the best thing to ever happen to the Railroad.

It’s not just Railroad agents that love her. Everyone, he means _everyone_ , she comes in contact with adores her. Hancock, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor, who takes care not to use chems around her because he knows she doesn’t like it. Piper, who is starry eyed over Fixer, er, Nate, almost 90% of the day, smiles wider and brighter when Charmer shows up. Nick who calls her ‘Doll’ and lets her solve cases with him. Preston has had hearts in his eyes since the first time he met Charmer, and adorned her with the title of General of his beloved Minutemen. Even Danse is fond of her (though he’s always been bitter about her refusal to join the Brotherhood), allowing her hugs and pets because that’s just who she is, how she shows affection. There’s more, of course. Dogmeat, who cries when she leaves and nearly pisses himself in happiness when she comes back. Mama Murphy who gave up chems because Charmer asked her to. H2 left her a goodbye note because she was so kind to him. Hell, she’s even got the loyalty of a goddamn super mutant, who threatens to eat anyone alive if they so much as hurt her feelings. She’s impossible to dislike, and so easy to love.

“I’ve always had a weakness for a man with blue eyes,” she remarks casually, but her voice is thick and Deacon begs whatever fates or gods there are that it’s because of him.

“That so? You sure you don’t just got a weakness for men named Deacon? I mean, I’m pretty irresistible.”

She laughs and damn she’s pretty.

Her eyes blaze when she looks back at him and for a moment, he’s derailed. He feels…unsure about all of this. Because he knows he doesn’t deserve her attention, doesn’t deserve anything good. He’s a fraud, a true and powerful liar, right to his core. He can feel the sourness of his true nature rising in his throat. He’s worthless, unnecessary, the darkness threatening to snuff out her light. He’ll ruin her and she’ll let him and he can taste bile in his throat.

Her hand is on his face now and she’s leaning in closer, her eyes soft and caring and oh so bright.

“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy. They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom,” she tells him quietly.

His heart and eyes flutter. She knows him. God, she knows him.

“Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible,” he replies.

She tuts. “Here I am quoting something beautiful and you pull out that drunken, angst ridden line. Here’s another: The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in seeking new eyes.”

Deacon grins. “Love is a reciprocal torture.”

And she kisses him. It’s electric and searing. He’ll never forget this moment as long as he’s alive. Her hand is warm against his cheek and her lips are chapped. She tastes like tobacco and salt, but he’s never tried anything sweeter. He moves closer, reaches up to hold the back of her head. Her hair is matted and greasy, but he tangles his fingers in it anyway. She moans when he licks into her mouth, sighs when he carefully pulls her closer, and opens wider for him when he deepens the kiss. He could probably kiss her until he died, he thinks. Because dammit this feels _so good_. His heart pumping, breath swallow. All he can feel is her. He has to open his eyes to make sure this is real, and he gets an up close and personal few of freckles. She has freckles. How did he not notice that before?

His eyes close again and he reaches for her thigh, squeezing it gently when he grasps it. She moans again and leans a little closer to him. He’s suddenly aware that they are sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. His eyes shoot open and he gentle pulls her away. She groans, opens her eyes and gives him a bemused look. Her pupils are wider now. Deacon’s heart stutters.

“Let’s, uh, move off this ledge. I’m not very interested in becoming a pancake today.”

She grins and rotates her body, climbing off the ledge of the building and moving to lean her back against it. Deacon follows, sitting down close to her, their bodies pressed against one another from shoulder to thigh.

She doesn’t waste time, leaning back in and pulling his face back to hers. He sighs, fucking _sighs_ , when her lips meet his again, and it’s his turn to let her take control. Her tongue slides into his mouth and he sucks on it, caresses it with his own. She moans and he can’t keep his hands off her. She needs to be closer. Right now.

He pulls her into his lap, groans loudly when she grinds down on him. He’s halfway hard and that right there is not helping – or is, depending on how you look at it. He bucks up into her, pulling another moan from her mouth. He breathes it in, lets it wash over her. His hands ghost up her thighs, hips, dip into her waist, and then float back down. He can’t stop touching her.

She sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and bites it, gently at first and then hard enough to make him whine. She pulls away and looks down at him, pupils blow wide, mouth red and swollen, and chest heaving. Her cheeks are just as flushed as they were when he first smiled at her and her smile is so genuine it hurts.

“My name is Grace,” she tells him. “Grace Hawthorne.”

His heart stops and he can’t breathe. He’s staring at her, unable to look away. She watches him calmly and doesn’t move. She’s waiting for him to say something. Anything.

He clears his throat. “Your middle name doesn’t happen to be Lee, does it?”

He thought her smile before was bright, but this is something else. She smiles so wide he’s afraid her face will break. Her eyes fill with tears and she sniffs, nodding rapidly. She’s on him a second later, pulling him in for a desperate, bruising kiss. Her arms are wrapped around his neck and he wraps his own tightly around her waist. He pulls her hard against him, desperate to have every inch of her body pasted to his own. If he could pull her into him, wrap himself around her entirely and never be parted from her, he would.

The kiss is almost savage. It’s all teeth and tongue and biting lips and tears –his and hers. It’s unreal, really. The kiss is saltier than before, but it’s still the most decadent thing Deacon has ever tasted. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, but he’s surprisingly uninterested in taking this any further. He doesn’t need it. Wants it, yes. But this, right here, this is enough. This would be more than enough if he died right this very moment.

She pulls away and he whines, tries to pull her back in. But she doesn’t let him, smiles at him so endearingly. He grins back at her, and its likely the dopiest thing she’s ever seen him do.

He watches her intently as she rolls up the left sleeve of her vault suit and shows him her wrist.

“Is this you, here?” she asks, pointing to the top name.

“It was,” he replies quietly after a few moments. “I’m not that man anymore.”

She gives him a sad, sweet smile. “Deacon’s a better name anyway.”

“Damn right,” he mumbles pulling her in for another kiss. It’s slow and languid and tastes so fucking good.

She’s sucking on his tongue when he realizes he recognized the other name printed on her wrist in chicken scratch. _Robert Joseph MacCready_.

He pulls away abruptly. “Goddammit.”

She gives him a concerned look. “What is it?”

He lets out a sharp breath through his nose. Of course. The fates would be so fucking ironic. He has to share his fucking soulmate, his literal dream girl, with the most annoying, loud mouthed, smart assed merc in the whole goddamn Commonwealth.

“Deacon,” she says, her voice like honey, “tell me what’s wrong.”

He looks up at her, a petulant frown on his face. He knows its childish, but he can’t help it. Dammit! Really?!

He huffs. “I may or may not have recognized the nearly illegible name below mine.”

She tries to fight back an excited grin. He can see her struggle. She bites her lips, squints her eyes, and sucks in her cheeks. But he can see right through her.

He sighs. “Go ahead,” he grumbles.

The smile breaks out and its still as lovely as always. She leans down and kisses him again; short, sweet little kisses over and over.

“Awe, Dee, are you jealous?” she teases, pressing kisses against his jaw and temple.

He shivers. “No.”

Her lips touch his ear and he’s got chill bumps. “Liar,” she whispers, tongue tracing the edge of his ear. The tingling goes straight to his dick. He moans and he can feel her smile against his neck.

“Really, I’m not,” he argues.

Her kisses travel to the other side of his throat. “You sure?”

“Yep. Kid’s got nothing on me.”

“Is that so?” she asks, pulling away to look at him with a soft, serious expression.

They stare at each other for a long while, neither willing to be the first to look away, to submit. Deacon feels defiant, feels rightfully defiant. He has every reason to be jealous, if he were. But he’s not. A lesser man might not like the idea of sharing his newly found soulmate with an undeserving brat who kills for money.

“Dee,” she says, her voice breathy and light.

Well, shit.

He groans. “Fiiiinnne. I might be slightly jealous, but it’s an insignificant amount, really.”

She doesn’t respond, just gives him a toothy, triumphant grin.

“But, honestly Babe, the guy isn’t all that impressive. He’s like smaller than I am, a shrimp really. Scrawny as all get out. Never seen the kid clean, ever. And he’s got a gap. In his teeth. Know what I mean? Like a big fucking gap. Not to mention, he’s a mercenary. And a mouthy shit. No manners to speak of. He’s pretty much an animal. You’re way out of his league.”

She’s chuckling now and gives him the most ridiculously adoring look. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. She runs her hand across his bald head.

“You know, marks can be platonic,” she remarks.

Deacon sighs, long and loud. “Yeah, but his won’t be.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s an arrogant little bastard who’s going to be drooling over you until the day he dies. Bet he pops a damn stiffy the second you introduce yourself.”

“How old is he anyway?” she asks offhandedly.

“I don’t know. Early twenties, maybe?”

She grins. “And how young are you, old man?”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “How rude. I’m full of youth.”

Her thumb gently runs under his eye. “You’ve got wrinkles here.”

“Wisdom lines, sugar. Not wrinkles.”

She grins and gives him a kiss. “I like them.”

He hides his smile in her neck and gives her a kiss there. They’re quiet for a few minutes, just holding one another.

“So, you really don’t like this MacCready guy then?”

Deacon groans and grips her waist, flipping them over. She squeals and clings to him, but doesn’t fight him moving her to her back. Her legs open to accommodate his body and he doesn’t miss the heat radiating from her center. She wants him. He smiles.

“No. I especially don’t like him now that I have to share you with him,” Deacon admits, kissing her jaw. He hasn’t been this honest with anyone since Barbara.

“Who knows,” Grace says. He can hear the smile in her voice. “Maybe you’ll learn to like him.”

“Unlikely,” Deacon cuts in moving to catch her eye. “But I know a way you can make me feel better about all of this.”

There’s a wicked glint in her eye and she bites her lip. “Yeah?” Her voice is deeper, rougher. Deacon grinds against her, pulling a moan from her throat.

“Yeah,” he replies, leaning down to lick her throat. She whimpers.

“What’s that?” she asks breathily.

Deacon pulls back. “Well, for starters, there’s this bookstore in Cambridge I’ve been dying to go to.”

Grace groans, but doesn’t fight the amused smile that ignites on her face. Deacon can’t look away from it.

“Really?” she asks, giving him a disbelieving look.

His grin is wry and charming. “Really.”

She sighs in good nature and lies back down. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Deacon responds, his voice getting deeper. “You can scream my name as I fuck you on this roof.”

She bites her lip, closes her crystal gray eyes, and whines. “Now that’s more like it.”

Deacon doesn’t waste time after that.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea floating in my head for a while now. This is going to be a series of one shots focusing on the relationships between Gracie, Deacon, and MacCready. POV's will change. There will be smut. I'll probably follow this story up with a continuation of Gracie and Deacon's rooftop escapade. That will be fun. ;) 
> 
> I'm planning on having as much fun as possible with the dynamic here. I'm unconvinced that there is no tension between two men when they're sharing the same women. At least, there has to be some in the beginning when they're figuring out the dynamic. I plan on playing with that tension. :)
> 
> #1 in 'The awful daring of a moment's surrender' series.


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